


HD 'Firm Convictions' MiniArc 3of3

by tigersilver



Series: Resolutions [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-30
Updated: 2012-05-30
Packaged: 2017-11-06 08:28:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/416795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigersilver/pseuds/tigersilver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Warnings/Summary: AU, EWE, Aurors, and a continuation and ending of the 'Resolutions' Mini-Arc, this is dedicated to dornfelder* , dysonrules* (gloves, darling—black leather), groolover , stellamoon just because, and ineffably_roma* , because I am oblivious and take ages to notice these vgifts that pop up in my Profile (eep, sorry!) Also, I'd rather like to send the Mods at hd_bigbang and hd_holidays* a great huge hug. Tiger</p>
            </blockquote>





	HD 'Firm Convictions' MiniArc 3of3

Draco was spot-on in his guesswork.

Potter _did_ open his front door that second time, and it _was_ dramatic, nearly bashing Draco's nose somehow in passing, even though the door itself opened inward and Draco was decidedly outside it still, hovering impatiently. It was likely the bob and bounce of that sleep-tousled head just at nose-level, but he wasn't thinking of things like that.

He took evasive action, of course—a half-step backwards—but he'd his hands out, thrusting before him, reaching to ensure Potter made no errors about his intentions. Not getting away, this Snitch; not if Draco had anything to say about it.

"Potter!" he exclaimed in relief, forgetting for a moment that his latest letter had started off with 'Dear Harry'; that he'd resolutely resolved to carry this teasing, taunting friendly-polite relationship they had forward to a very much more intimate first-name basis for the New Year or crucify himself trying—that 'Harry', the word itself, was so much gentler in sound and nature than Draco's usual staccato 'Pot- _ter_!'

More like a stroke than a tap, _Har-ry_. A caress, of sorts. Made his blood run sluggish and thick, the music of it.

Draco sighed in contentment, shadowed eyes at half-mast, and fondly considered his life's goal, who gaped at him, blankly startled.

"Ah!"

Harry jumped about a foot or so in the frigid air, clearly not expecting Draco to be _right there_ , up his nose, almost literally.

"Merlin! I-I didn't know you'd be—be—erm, Malfoy!"

"Harry," Draco replied, and managed to land his hands on Potter's upper arms in a rather graceful maneuver. "Harry, um…"

And there he stalled out flat, mouth hanging open just a bit.

Harry was still as much of a walking sartorial mishap as he'd been the first time he'd opened the door to Grimmauld Place on New Year's Eve, with his sleep pants half-hitched over a bared hip and his spectacles covered with fingertip smears, dark hair all everywhere but mostly up and sideways-flattened from where he'd ruffled it, and green eyes wide and unguarded, but Draco was of the opinion it was a damned fine look on him. One he should be invited to view often and at his leisure— _sans_ the pants, of course. In the mornings, before work. In the evenings, after. Every sodding weekend, too.

Having Harry vulnerable and oddly innocent, blinking up at him; it caused Draco's heart to hitch and stutter, that. Gave him the subtle shivers and that wasn't from his forgotten Warming Charms failing abruptly, either.

"I," Draco burst out, manfully overcoming the slough he fallen into, conversationally, "I—may I come in?"

"Oh—ah!"

Harry flushed a delightful pale pink and shuffled backwards on bare feet. It was excruciatingly charming; Draco winced.

"Um, yes. Yes, of course. Here," he mumbled, "do, please," and went himself, twisting sideways. And so Draco followed him very closely, because of course he'd not be leaving hold of Harry's upper arms. Not for an instant. In fact, his fingers, gloved in soot-hued lambskin and warmed by magical cashmere, only curled all the more tightly.

They stepped in tandem, backwards and turtle-wise, into Grimmauld's fastness, almost as if they were engaged in a dance move that required great concentration to execute.

The events of the cloakroom were suddenly very vivid and memorable before Draco's light-dazzled eyes. The foyer of No. 12 Grimmauld Place was only dimly lit by a set of floating candles and several flickering wall sconces, but it was much lighter overall than the occasional streetlamps and fireworks had been, and it was deliciously warm and quiet after the chill and rustle of the street and the lingering 'pops' and bangs of Muggles and Wizards alike celebrating New Year's. It was a haven, a hideaway, and here he was—with Harry—exactly as Draco had wished. The rise in light levels caused him to blink rapidly, as he happily inhaled the smell of sleepy male and the faint odour of cinnamon apples and cheddar that seemed to linger enticingly over his objet d'amour.

With an inner grin at his own excellent planning, Draco locked onto his target, appreciating his finer points now he could see them clearly.

First off, Harry smelt delectable. He looked a rare treat, bare-chested, clad in not much of consequence. Draco swallowed hard at the view; he wanted nothing so much as to be given full leave to devour. Immediately, if not sooner.

"Um, tea?" Harry croaked at him, and then 'Ahem'd', clearing his throat and glancing down in some small confusion at the black-gloved hands that still stuck fast to him. He instantly flushed a darker shade of rose. "Or...or maybe a Firewhisky? Might I—d'you want? Aren't you cold?"

"Champagne, Harry," Draco breathed, and began to smile in his old way—the triumphant way, which was a bit boyish and a bit condescending-oh, so slowly. Harry was every bit as flustered as Draco was and a great deal more obvious about it: it was every ex-Slytherin would-be seducer's wet dream, this. He swallowed again, Adam's apple sticking, as his own throat was nearly strangled, tight with stifled want. "I've brought you some Joüet for sharing—did you not notice?"

"Oh, well. I—thanks! That's super. Erm?"

Harry glanced up at Draco again, apparently not thinking any more on the fact that Draco still held him fast, though he was plainly puzzled.

"So, er, right, right—yes!" he nodded eagerly. "Um, come all the way in, then, yeah? And maybe you could…let go? So I can—um. Right."

Harry joggled an elbow in the general direction of the waiting bottle and Draco took that as an open-ended invitation. He kicked a heel out backwards and behind him, shutting the heavy oaken door with a muffled thud and closing out the world, so it was only just the two of them, finally.

But he didn't leave go.

"Shall I? The bottle?"

Green eyes were openly inquiring and Draco found himself once more in the languorous fall he'd grown so accustomed to, whenever he chanced to gaze for too long into Harry's mesmerizing eyes. He'd deliberately avoided doing that for years and years, well aware of what nonsense his own silly stone-grey ones might be blurting out wordlessly, without his knowledge or proper leave. Besides, Harry hadn't been in any way ready to read them before, no...but hopefully he was, now. Hopefully, Draco's suddenly Transfiguring himself into an open book for Harry's perusal wasn't as much of a total shock as it would've been, a few years ago.

Or had been, last night, before he'd come up with this current scheme. Er, plan of action. 'Scheme' sounded just a bit dirty, and Draco was determined to stay well aboveboard. That would be more effective in any case, as it was Harry.

"Allow me," he murmured, recalling his manners, and dragged his speaking gaze away only very reluctantly from Harry's. He glared ferociously at the green glass bottle instead, nicely chilled from sitting out in the open for so long, and it rose up with a tiny elegant bobble and proceeded to uncork itself neatly. The two flutes—which Harry must have set to floating earlier—bustled over to it most officiously, waiting to accept their bubbly golden burden.

They clinked in passing, the silvery riband that bound them tangling, and it was a musical noise—a tiny chime of celebration. Harry and Draco, returned to gazing wordlessly at each other, didn't hear a note. It was only when the two glasses separated themselves and hovered insistently off respective port and starboard that they both came alert with a start.

"Oh, ah," Harry whispered, "it's ready."

"Yes," Draco purred, finally— _finally_ —detaching his hands from Harry, long enough to capture the glassware and offer one to his host with a small appreciative nod.

"Yes, it is," he repeated and nearly added: _And so the fuck am I!_ but mercifully didn't, just. "Here's to your continued good health, then. Thank you for inviting me in."

"Mmm—you're welc- _ack_!" Harry, ever the galumphing, accident-prone idiot, grabbed his glass too quickly and tipped quite half of it down his throat in a rush, promptly choking. "Ergh!"

"Git!" Draco had a hand to Harry's spine in a blink, grabbing the sloshing glass away with the other, and was whacking at him with force. " _Idiot_ git! That's not how you treat Joüet! Have a care, will you?"

And—just like that-the spell which had held them as brilliantly speechless and blushing as two Hufflepuff pre-adolescents on their first group date to Hogsmeade; the one which rendered two fully grown men, both perfectly capable of conversing politely and holding their respective own in nearly any situation, shattered.

"Damn!" Harry coughed and hacked, eyes watering. "Damn! Bubbles!"

"Yes, Harry," Draco observed dryly, cocking his chin in a judicious manner. "They're a feature of fine French sparkling wines; do grow used to them. Are you alright now?"

He watched Harry very carefully but the nit seemed to be over his bout of coughing and had regained what remained of his composure.

"Yes, of course I am, Malfoy. Um—d'you want to come into the sitting room, then? It's likely warmer in there. I imagine you're a little cold, by now?"

Draco noted the 'Malfoy' and frowned immediately.

"Draco," he corrected instantly, glaring, chin up. "I'm _Draco_ , Harry. You have my express leave to address me so, you know. I haven't exactly stopped by so we could stand 'round and be polite strangers, you know?"

"Ah, um! Well, about that…"

Harry's persistent blush, which had been coming and going in a fascinating play across his changeable face, maxed out to a pickled beet colour. He snorted a bit uncertainly and stepped carefully away from Draco, waving a hand toward a door that stood invitingly open a little ways down the narrow hallway.

"I didn't assume you had, berk. Well—go on in, if you going. My feet are like ice. I want off this cold tile."

"Riiight, Harry," Draco growled, irritated for some unknown reason, and strode forward with his usual panache, though he sneaked a look over one shoulder to make certain Harry was following. An imperious lift of a pale eyebrow had the bottle and the discarded glassware scurrying after them, and a crook of a leather-gloved pinkie summoned the box and the two letters he'd delivered previously. "Very gracious, your so-kind offer, but…as you wish. I've a moment to stay and visit with you, I s'pose."

But the moment Draco walked through and saw the discarded afghan bundled up on one end of an ancient green leather sofa and the fire crackling merrily in the grate, he knew he'd taken the wrong tack. It smelt of home, and of Harry, here. He didn't want to be allowed his regulation tot of celebratory New Year's Eve champagne and then be shuffled unceremoniously out like some unwanted door-to-door sales Wizard—he didn't want Harry to be in any way irked with him, not tonight of all nights.

He'd a damned fine plan worked out and it was his own stupid fault he was addled. Well, his fault and Harry's horribly thin, overlarge sleep pants. _Those_ should be declared bloody illegal in England, for the sake of the virtuous everywhere.

"Er—I meant t say—thanks, Harry. I'll be glad to," Draco scrambled for words to fix up his last, ill-chosen ones, and was grateful to all the old gods Harry couldn't quite see his face as he followed Draco through the wide doorway. Draco was sure it was likely the very picture of pained embarrassment, his face.

"Stay—I meant to say 'stay'," he tacked on, determined to make that point very clear. "Here. For some champagne. And we can…we can talk, alright? I'm sure you have some…questions."

Draco cringed at the concept of Harry asking him…questions.

They had a fine working relationship, he and Potter, as long as Potter didn't inquire too closely into what Draco did with his spare time. Which was substantial, even with the Manor and the other Malfoy properties to manage when he wasn't off Auroring daily with Potter, from nine to five. But it was also automatic, and rather boring, shuffling paperwork and playing with stock prices, and he had a great many free hours, which he spent plotting.

Scheming, rather. He'd become rather a past master at putting on a decent front, Draco had. Needs must, and he was surrounded by incompetents at the Ministry and buffeted about all too often by Harry's sheer pig-headed obstinacy. The Boy Who Lived had some very definite and pronounced ideas on how to go about things and Draco most certainly didn't always agree. He'd had to compromise, and persuade his partner to do the same, and often for the sole purpose of keeping their skins intact, so they could live on another day, the two of them. Harry, Draco knew, wasn't aware of the half of it—likely the oblivious git thought he was just that damned lucky, when it was really all on Draco's shoulders, bustling about behind-scenes.

It infuriated him, Potter's blinkered view. It was as if he'd a blind spot a league wide and expressly designed to block out any intimation of other people's finer feelings. And especially Draco's. Every other bloody Witch and Wizard in the Auror department, from Dawlish all the way down to the veriest Ravenclaw intern, was at least marginally aware of how Draco Malfoy felt for Harry Potter—excepting Harry himself. Every single one, though it was as much as their collective lives were worth to breathe a word about it to the git in question. And Harry—dear, witless Harry—seemed to prefer being clueless.

He bloody wallowed in it, the prat, or so Draco was forced to assume after years of fending off well-meaning, carefully polite queries as to his single status, his social life—even the state of his very lonely bed at the Manor. No, Harry hadn't a sliver of a crumb of an _inkling_ as to what his partner was really and truthfully feeling, and for a very long time that had been more than alright by Draco. He'd thought it would pass, actually.

It had certainly felt like an aberration when it began—some sort of transferred hero-worship he'd succumbed to after the War was over, starting right after the brilliant rescue from the deadly Fiendfyre. He'd not had the time before then to question his prior actions on Potter's behalf; he'd no real clue of why he'd denied Harry when his mad aunt Bella had put him on the spot. Had merely—logically-concluded it was the exigency of the situation and been unspeakably thankful for it, after. He'd at least done the one right thing, even if it was only in a panic; made one good choice, after a whole miserable series of remarkably bad ones. It left Draco feeling oddly better, and thus he'd not drowned in useless guilt or inadequacy afterwards, when Potter saved _him_ —saved them all, of course.

No, he'd been energized by it. Potter had handed him another chance, just as carelessly as he'd nearly hexed him to death back in Myrtle's loo, and likely with as little thought to the consequences, and that in itself had been terribly freeing. Draco wasn't left with any lingering feelings of overwhelming gratitude or guilt towards Potter for treating him so shabbily for all those years. The git had given as good as he'd ever gotten, after all, and all that bad blood they'd held between them had certainly been mutual.

But after, _after_. He'd applied for Aurors because he'd been fed up with it. No one should be able to subvert a whole generation—two!—and destroy them on a whim and only for an overweening lust for power. No one, not Voldemort, not Grindelwald before him—not Potter, either, though Draco really couldn't see Potter in that role. Git was too careless and not of the right mindset, bloody ex-Gryffindor. Likely he'd not know what to do with absolute power if it whacked him across the face with a girder. So, it was up to Draco to get in there and apply his now unfortunately intimate knowledge of mad Wizards gone bad in the place where it would do the most good for the ones who came after—the Aurors.

That Potter happened to be on the same course was of interest, of course, but hardly of importance to Draco—or so he'd errantly believed. Till they spent one fast-track year training together and then Dawlish cemented the grudging friendship they'd constructed little by little into a daily working partnership.

He'd sat up in bed one day—Draco recalled the morning clearly—and realized with a start that he'd been dreaming—dreaming of Potter. That he couldn't wait to make his way to work—because of Potter. That he brought Potter coffee and an Elf-made pastry every morning without fail, fixing up the brew just exactly as Potter liked it, because it was Potter he was thinking of.

Potter, Potter, Potter—Harry.

Fucking A.

Then began Draco's _real_ struggle: to keep Potter as happily in the dark as he'd always been, the tit. Because this couldn't be for real. It had to be propinquity and perhaps that creeping respect he felt and still denied rather vehemently. It was Potter's unusual green eyes and that fact that he fit perfectly into the crook of Draco's shoulder when they Side-Alonged. It was his smile, which took up his whole face and then bloody well spilt over, glowing for leagues and shining for miles. It was his wicked sense of humour—half guttersnipe, half gentleman scholar—that left Draco coughing back laughter and hiding his answering smiles.

The smell of him, after they'd subdued another perp. The familiar sound of his boots coming down the linoleum'd hallway that led to their Ministry cubical office. All that, and even the way he said 'Thanks, Malfoy!' every morning, when Draco presented him with his habitual brew, Danish and a sniff of laid-on mock annoyance, in that particular wide-eyed, unbelieving tone of wonder: _that_ was what had finally done Draco in. But—he believed this in spite of everything—it would pass.

It must, because Harry was straighter than straight and had a girl. And not just any girl, either. No, it had to be the Weasley one, and look just like Harry's dead mother, and dear Merlin, but this had better be just a passing phase, Draco swore, or he was in for it.

His scheming took on another hue. Now it was Potter he wore the mask for, whilst still juggling that budding friendship. He'd didn't care to lose that—it had been ages coming, and he found he couldn't bear to be cold and off-putting in an effort to defend his finer feelings. No, not an option. And Potter crept further in to Draco's uneasy heart, thusly, till he'd taken it over, all of it.

"Are you sitting? Malfoy?" Harry prompted, and Draco came to with a gasp. He was _here_ , where he engineered the final showdown and they were right in the thick of it—and he'd already put a foot wrong in his grand plan, just by being his usual sneering self. Time to backpedal, then. More than he had. Or rather, find a way around the hole he'd dug, being smarmy. Go sideways; charming, that was what was called for, now.

"If you'll sit with me, I will," he drawled, snagging his flute from the thin air and gesturing to the couch. "Shall we? Be comfortable, that is?"

It looked long enough and wide enough to contain two Wizards were they to descend to the horizontal, the battered sofa. Certainly, he'd plans to do that exact thing. Harry's pjs had been so often cleaned they were thin as tissue paper and were only barely clinging to his hips. That was a cruel thing to subject a well-mannered Wizard who'd come openly courting, that. Draco had fantasies of punishing Potter because of it. Stripping him naked and kissing every inch of that skin, from ankle to cowlick, were featured brilliantly.

Strangely, half his champagne had disappeared suddenly, leaving Draco staring rather foolishly at the glass. Harry, however, was staring at _him_ , fixedly.

"Oh," Harry blinked at him, guileless as a baby Puffskein. "Alright. Let's, then. I, uh. I had a few questions, actually."

And they sat, with Draco hastily scooting in next to Harry's form in a winking. The Joüet followed them both, and proceeded to top off their glasses. Draco found his wrist had been tied closely to Harry's as the stemware did its Charmed thing with the ribbon, which hampered them both as they sipped—noses nearly nudging, elbows knocking often. It had evidently been waiting to activate, that Charm he'd flung on them at the last, desperate moment before delivery, and now the two of them were attached with a physical sign of binding –very pretty, too. Fuck, they were almost snogging.

Draco's groin ached something fierce.

"Um, Draco?" Harry looked sideways at him, eyes cautious; his glass paused before his damp lips, "what's with this?' He licked them and squinted at the silvery wisp of satin, which chose that to moment to tighten, drawing them ever closer. "Draco?" Harry prodded, back to the wide-eyed stare in a heart-throbbing, dick-jerking instant.

"Unnh."

Harry's hip was burning into Draco's. He couldn't breathe properly, much less think of anything witty to say in response, and he wasn't planning on doing something as gauche as panting aloud. Not yet, at least.

Damn this Potter! This always happened when they were in proximity and it drove him fairly barmy, every time. What _would_ he ever do if he were to be distracted during some crucial working moment, he'd often wondered. Give into the overwhelming urge to take and taste and touch and let their hard-earned arrest be spoilt? Or hex some poor shoplifting sod into a perpetual coma with an amped-up Stunner and ravage Harry on the spot?

It had nearly happened, just precisely that way, only three days ago, as it was now a few minutes past midnight. It had been the last straw laid atop the cameleopard's back—the one which had fair forced Draco from his comfortable covey and flushed him into flight. In a mad rush to flee back to his comfortable 'glitch' excuse, Draco had spent a frantic evening after work, pulling out his all his ancient notes and old letters written to Boy Wonder and never Owled, vastly curious as to the history of this fucking phase that wouldn't cease—searching, if he were honest, for a cure. He'd sat for ages in one of attics, after, staring his options squarely in the eyeballs. They were few, and obvious.

Hades, they were two and no, he wasn't leaving Potter. Harry. _Har-ry._

"Um…yes?" he replied, upping his eyebrows quizzically and erratically lobbing the conversational ball back over the fence, and all the while deftly transferred his wineglass from one perspiring palm to the other, which allowed him to slide his one arm along the back of the sofa, and then conveniently rest it along Harry's naked collarbone. "You were saying, Harry?"

Draco admitted freely he wasn't above trying a little diversion. _Whatever worked_ , was his motto.

His arm found body heat and very nicely delineated warmth it was, too-and golden, and muscled. Potter sported some rather impressive breeding to be this sodding attractive, Muggleborn mother or no, Draco decided, bemused by the dip and rise of lines and hollows. The woman must've been drop-dead gorgeous, as Harry was.

His fingers curled convulsively, and Harry shifted a bit beneath them, restless, till he was practically perched in Draco's lap. Where Draco's dick happened to be lying in wait, like a fucking asp on the make. He jerked as it did and inhaled sharply through his nose.

"Yes, Harry?" he repeated, rather urgently. One more sodding moment of this and all hope of actually intelligently discussing anything at all would be a lost cause. He was so very, very deprived, after all this time, and here was milk-and-honey, the very taste of heaven, right within his reach, and he could just simply take it and to Hades with the bloody ramifications of mauling the Wizarding world's poster boy.

Gods, but he _so_ wanted. And he _knew_ , after the Eve's Eve and the Ministry loo, exactly what Harry tasted like when he was in the throes of orgasm.

Exquisite.

"You were, er, saying…Harry?" he repeated, throat scratchy suddenly but desperate to talk. Anything not to make his move too fast—not to spook Harry too soon. He didn't want a one-off, after all. They could have tumbled into bed any time these past three years—or as soon as he'd heard tell of those thrice-cursed Muggle blokes Harry was arse-snatching—and been done with it, if it were only lust he felt. Would've, too.

A 'phase', hah! Who in Salazar's sainted name had he _ever_ imagined he'd been kidding?

"You, um," Harry mumbled, voice very soft and low, so that Draco had to drop his chin to hear it, "you were saying—in your letter, that is—that you had…a…thing…for me?"

Draco closed his eyes, anguished. Popped them instantly open again, because now, more than ever, he had to gauge Harry's exact expression.

"Yes. Yes, I do," he admitted. It was amazingly simple to do that. He huffed happily and let go of his glass. Who needed champagne anyway? "I very much do, Harry."

"And you," Harry went on, and Draco could've licked the faint spots of brilliant red right off the git's cheekbones, "seem to want to—to need, um. Um?"

"You, Harry, I need _you_. Yes," Draco helped him out. This could take all the rest of the night, at this rate. He'd die of sheer unadulterated desire if it did, he was certain. Anything to move the process along. "That's right. Any…objections?"

He stared at Harry intently, so close his narrow nose poked against the plane of Harry's rather nice straight one; so near they shared the same humid, champagne-tinged air, and willed Harry not to panic or fall back. With all his might, Draco willed it—wished it, demanded it be so. Three years, and seven before that, spent accumulating the willpower to travel this far, to this place. He had an impressive amount, built up. And a very impressive dick at the ready, to go along with.

Even if Harry said 'No, thanks,' Draco wasn't budging. Not an inch off this sofa or a millimeter away from this git who'd bloody well dragooned Draco's hapless self into a lifelong dependency, all without even noticing. Much. Not even Harry could be quite that oblivious.

"I," Harry cast his gaze down, and Draco shuddered, immediately terrified of losing that continued visual contact. Lowered eyes meant walls up and barricades set, at least for Harry Potter. He knew that, from learning who Harry really was these last three years in the Ministry and all Draco could see was doom rising before him and the door closing, metaphorically, if not in graphic reality.

_Please, no._

"I," Harry hesitated, and went a bit pale and strained 'round the jawbone.

 _Please,_ yes _, Harry_ , Draco begged, with those few synapses that still fired. _Please,_ please _, Harry_.

"Think I would like that," Harry went on, in a mumbled rush. "Very much. Thanks."

Then he blushed, the conniving little prick, and sealed Draco's fate forever.

Draco grabbed. Without even thinking about it, he yanked Harry onto him and over top of him and hauled his messy dark head down to proper kissing level. The second flute went across the room in a wild careening spin, silver ribbon stretching out like magical elastic between it and its fellow, twanging.

"Fucking hell," he swore through bared teeth, eyes wild, "what you put me through, Harry! I hate you!"

"S-Sorry!"

Harry had trouble reclaiming his mouth to even apologise. Draco didn't let him keep it to himself for much longer than it took to grin evilly at him, eyes lowered to nasty slits, and snarl. Then it was on again, the battle to the death as to who went down first, to end up trapped below, sandwiched between hungry Wizard and forgiving cushion.

"But!" Harry attempted valiantly to utter something more, but wasn't given the opportunity. "Oi! Wai—"

Draco won, handily. He had, after all, the element of surprise and the larger frame, for all that Harry was a sneaky little git and swift about it. He pinned him, hands on shoulders, knees firmly planted between thighs; pelvic girdle thrusting downwards and grinding hard and steadily, and sodding well forced a subsiding Harry to separate those sculpted legs of his even farther, so that the tortured, worn threadbare sleep pants ripped right up one seam and fell away in tatters, fluttering like a bloody red flag—only greyish.

"Fucking brilliant!" Draco exclaimed, happily triumphant, and crouched over Harry in a rabidly feral manner, assessing next moves. "Budge those up, will you? Legs, Harry—legs! 'Round my waist, then—and these can go. They're rubbish," he added, firm fingers removing the remainder of the intrusive pants. "Don't fucking need clothes for what we're doing."

"But you're wearing—"

Harry never got to finish that sentence either, but then Draco was already shucking his own woolen trousers and pants down with one rough hand, flies half undone, and all of it shoved heedlessly. Was also reaching out into the air, which sizzled and sparkled about them, significantly, for some lotion or oil or whathaveyou with the other hand—he didn't care which it was he got and the magic would sodding well provide; that's what magic did, right?—and dipping eager fingers in it the instant it appeared.

"Don't ever—" he gasped, having bitten Harry's full lower lip to the point of blood welling to halt his infernal jabber, "don't ever, _ever_ fucking think you'll be rid of me now, Harry. Don't mistake this!"

"No...no! _Oh_!" Harry gurgled, and then gave up on any effort at verbalizing further, spine arching up off the sofa into a pliant curve, gluing himself to Draco's body even as he was penetrated by a probing fingertip.

Warm oil—it was magical, naturally—hot tongues, and gagging little noises of want, wordless—all animal. Draco hadn't much left to say—his cock was going to say it for him-and Harry'd have a time ever prying him away, now.

"Mmmm! Draco, Draco!"

But Harry seemed alright with the prospect, even so. Two fingers in him and he was all over pink as boiled lobster, and Draco relished the feel of his thin leather gloves—a bit stunned, he'd noticed a half-second into impaling Harry on his fingers that he was even still wearing them—thrust deep into the spongy, slippery heat.

"Ah!" Harry jolted once and then went into a frozen spasm, barely breathing though his mouth was wide open. He came together with a hiccup when Draco twisted his knuckles. "Ahhh, Draco—that's _it_. More, please. In me—in me, now!"

"Fucking, yes. Merlin, _yes_ ," Draco promised, and halted instantly, despite Harry's contrary killer glare, using his smeared palm and fingers to hastily grease himself up. "Now, now, now, now!"

Whatever the conjured oil might be, it smelt of compounded cinnamon and butter. Draco was certain he'd never forget it—not ever. It was imprinted upon him, from his quivering, painfully hard cock to his stinging, watery eyes. He blinked, perilously near womanish tears—this was more than he'd ever imagined, or dared to—and angled himself properly and meticulously, bringing Harry's hips in line, rising up on his knees in a graceful lunge.

And then jabbed in that flinching rose-red hole at last, anticipating avidly all his fantasies, ever scribbled in the margins of faded letters with ink green like emeralds, but only barely, and was nearly instantly repelled for his trouble.

"Tight," he remarked, calmly enough, through clenched teeth. " _Tight_ , Harry."

"Ungh! Not—not for a while," Harry, clearly willing himself to be fluid and lax within the bounds of Draco's grasp on him, faltered, opening his eyes slowly, shyly. He looked to be gobsmacked, same as Draco was, and more than a little dazed. His tongue-tip showed for a mere second, peeping out as he wet his dry lips. "But—but, please? Please, now?"

"Wait," Draco ordered, though he pushed a bit harder, all the same, and remained relentless, till the ring of unforgiving muscle at last gave way. "Wait, so I don't—I don't— _wait_!"

"Don' care," Harry muttered at him darkly. Shook his head like an opium addict, denied, side to side in a damp toss, and Draco nearly came, just from watching Harry's throat ripple. "Don' care 'bout that, Draco! In!"

"Pat— _ience_ , you bugger!"

Again, an inch, barely. Again, another, and Draco was sorely tempted. But, no, he wasn't going there and all the incubi glitter of Harry's green eyes wouldn't drag him down. He had literally years of _not_ having this to make up for—no bloody fucking way was he ever planning on allowing anything short of total world destruction to interrupt this glorious moment and Harry in pain would most definitely do that. _Not_ that he could ever imagine himself causing Harry pain—that would be as ungodly unbearable as Harry not…

"In!"

Harry was shooting sparks at him, in place of pure, unadulterated 'sultry'.

"Give…it...a moment, yeah?' Draco panted, infuriated, the bead of sweat on his furrowed brow trickling in a fine trail down his temple. "I'm…coming, damn it!"

"Better not be!"

Randy little arse, Harry was. That made Draco smile, eyes aglitter. Boded well for those mornings, nights and weekends that stretched before them, now. But the awful, fateful word 'Coming!' snagged Harry's attention and quickish, too. His green gaze was very beady-eyed and frankly suspicious.

"Git! Don' you dare come withou' me!" he slurred, rolling his hips in a truly mind-bending manner. Draco gasped and gave into the overwhelming urge to pant.

Gods, next he'd be salivating!

"As...if…I _would_ , git—selfish bast- _Ah_! Ahahah! There! _There_ , Harry—alright, Harry?"

"My fucking gods, yesssss," Harry moaned, and that was it—right there—the very pinnacle of Draco Malfoy's existence to date. Immediately replaced that very next second, because naturally, have gotten _in_ , he pulled back _out_ again.

And _in_. And _out_. And in, and so forth and so on, like the tides rolling and the moon waxing and waning, only ever so much faster and of the utmost importance to the two of them.

'Magic' was the very least of it, really.

**0o0**

"I'm bloody well bronzing this sofa," Harry remarked, after. Draco nodded happily, dozing with his head on Harry's incredible chest. That seemed appropriate to him. This sofa was right up there with Stonehenge, a magical place of great cultural importance, and would be considered so by one Draco Malfoy, ever after.

"You need to move in," Harry said next, twenty minutes later, after he'd been yanked off his knees and had his mouth licked clean—every crevice, every furl and furrow—of Draco's come. Draco nodded. That could be arranged, yes.

"You realize that your sodding Muggles are a thing of the past, right, Harry?" Draco muttered, around three in the morning, nipping at Harry's earlobe nastily. He scowled in the darkness. "In fact, all other blokes are off-limits from now on? Got that, Potter?"

"Mmmmm, m'okay, Draco. G'nigh…"

Harry rolled over on his back, sighing, and Draco took advantage of that motion to add another love-bite to the collection spreading across his collarbone like an odd rash. Well, higher up, really, where it would be clearly visible to anyone who knew to look for those things. Which included that sodding Ravenclaw intern, of course-bastarding little prick, making eyes at Draco's Harry.

That'd show him. Draco hadn't gotten here a moment too soon.

He fell asleep, still triumphant.

**0o0**

"My god, my god, Draco!" Harry groaned in the shower, come a very late morning after the night before. "You— _you_!"

"Love you, Harry," Draco clamped down, and managed to ram himself in little deeper, shifting his feet on the soap-slippery tile floor and pressing his lover practically through the wall. Likely Harry could feel his cock halfway up his esophagus, now. "Don't dare ever change your bloody-minded little—"

"I won't—I won't," Harry promised, and proved just how amazing he really was by thrusting back just that one more inch. "Yours. _Yours_ , swear it—I swear."

"Oh-my-sod-ding-Mer-lin! _Har-ry_!"

…And they were thusly bound, and not solely by the firmness and steely strength of their convictions.

**0o0**

…Or so Justin Finch-Fletchley richly intoned to the gathered celebrants, in the toast he made at their Bonding, some six weeks later.

 

End arc: 'Resolutions'

 

***


End file.
